


Sam's Very Strange Fantasy

by ausmac



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 02:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21067598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ausmac/pseuds/ausmac
Summary: Sam Tyler has a rather strange fantasy involving Gene Hunt that takes alternate universes in a kinky direction.Written back during my early love of the series around 2008.





	Sam's Very Strange Fantasy

_Sam's fantasy is this:_

  
  
For weeks they'd been hunting a killer. The victims were all young women, all from working class families, all taken on their way home in the evening. They were beaten but not raped, knifed to death, and left naked and blood soaked, for the cops to find. There were few clues, few results and three bodies that had ended up in the morgue, silent testimony to Sam's failure.  
  
Sam paced his office all morning, searching for inspiration. He was missing something important, he knew, but it continued to elude him. There must be some lead he could chase down, some snitch he could pressure, some avenue of investigation he was overlooking. He gave a thought to having a drink and pushed the thought aside. Maybe later in the night, in the silence of his flat, but not at work. He needed to be able to think his way out of the problem.  
  
There was a sharp knock and he looked up as the door swung open.  
  
"Yes, Annie?"  
  
"Guv, there's someone to see you."  
  
Sam knew all the tones of Annie's voice, and this Annie was very surprised, and puzzled. "Who?"  
  
She looked over her shoulder, then back at Sam. "Guv…it's Hunt. Gene Hunt."  
  
_Well, no wonder she's surprised. Only way I ever thought I'd get Gene Hunt in this office is in handcuffs and me with an ironclad case for prosecution. _"Very well, show him in please."  
  
She backed out and a few moments later Manchester's most prominent criminal strode into the room.  
  
He was a dominating figure. Tall, solidly built but not fat. Word was he worked out at the Marlborough Gym twice a week, and Sam thought he might just be strong enough to have a go at a boxing title. Assuming the man would be able to follow any rules. He was well dressed in a tailored grey coat over a dark blue suit jacket, pale blue shirt, black tie and black trousers, his blond mane swept back. He would have looked like a prominent businessman, if you didn't notice the square chin, hard green eyes and the two big bruisers following behind him.  
  
"You can leave the guard dogs outside, Mr Hunt. No one in here is going to knock you off, no matter the temptation."  
  
Hunt gave a half smile, eyes narrowing. "Sorry about that, DCI Tyler. Bit of a habit with me, as I'm sure you can understand." He spoke without turning. "Both of you, wait outside, and behave yerselves."  
  
The two men nodded and turned, closing the door behind them. Hunt sat in one of the chairs, took out a silver cigarette case and lit one up. He held out the case, then paused. "Oh, right, I remember, you don't partake."  
  
Sam sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest, wondering just how much of the high ground he could recover. "Not that I don't relish our infrequent interactions, Mr Hunt, but care to fill me in on the purpose of y'visit?"  
  
Hunt took a drag of his cigarette, blew out a cloud, and nodded. "To the point, as usual. Thing is, I'm here with something of an offer for you. In the way of a deal, you might say."  
  
Sam unfolded himself and stood. "I don't do deals with criminals, so if that's all…"  
  
"Oh stop getting' yer knickers in a twist, yer Gladys. I'm not offerin' yer a bribe. Even if I wanted to, I do recall the fate of a certain fella called Warren who tried that on you. Do I look like a fool?"  
  
Sam really didn't want to think what Gene Hunt looked like because it took him places his mind really shouldn't be going. "Then what? Offering to turn yourself in and seek rehabilitation?"  
  
"Well," Hunt said, with that trademark crooked smile, "I reckon if any copper could make an honest man of me, it'd be you, DCI Tyler. But no, as it happens, I may be able to help you with the murder case you've got going at the moment. The three women killed? Like to solve that one, find the fella responsible, would you?"  
  
Sam's nostrils twitched. "Is that a trick question?"  
  
Hunt frowned slightly, not getting the reference. "No trick. I have information that I can give you. For a price. And before you get all aggravated at me, the price will be something you can pay without soiling your honourable copper principles."  
  
Sam went to speak and Hunt stood, and shook his head. "Not here. Walls have ears and so on. Meet me tonight at my club, seven o'clock. And I'd take me seriously if I were you, 'cause I suspect the lad responsible was just warming up and has plans for more women, if you get my drift."  
  
Something like fury swelled in Sam's belly and he stepped forward, crowding into Hunt's space, right up against the big body. "If you are in any way involved in this, I swear to God…!"  
  
Green eyes looked down at him, unafraid. "And when have I ever been into that sort o'thing? I am what I am, Mr Tyler, but I don't go round knockin' off young women like those were. If you want to give over the threats and get this scrote off the streets of our fair city, I suggest you meet me tonight." He shrugged, rolling his big shoulders under his expensive coat. "Otherwise, forget it. I'm sure you'll get him eventually, you're a bright lad. Might just take a few more bodies to do it." His eyelids dipped, features calmed. "Now, how about you get out of may way so I can be off about my business."  
  
Sam stared into the watching eyes for a few moment moments, felt his heart do an odd out-of-beat dance, and then he pulled himself together and stepped back. Hunt dipped his head in an odd little bow, turned and left, closing the door behind him.  
  
Sam's DI was in the office a few moments later. "Jeez, Guv, what was that about?"  
  
"You tell me and we'll both know. Hopefully after tonight I might be able to answer that question, but right now I need a drink."  
  
The afternoon moved by at its usual pace, moments of tedium interspersed with hours of activity, but eventually the day shift ended and before Sam knew it, it was six o'clock. Sam put away his files, folded his hands together and studied the clock.  
  
Go, or stay? It wasn't a matter of choice, really. If he didn't go, he would always wonder if he'd missed a chance, an opportunity to both solve this case, and get some sort of hook into Gene Hunt. That was the big target, the blue ribbon, the gold cup in the cabinet. So he washed his hands and face, tidied himself up as best he could, and headed out to his car to drive to the Billington Club, arriving just on six forty five. He was obviously expected: one of the bouncers at the door parked his car, the other escorted him around the side of the club and in through a private locked entry.  
  
He was led upstairs to Hunt's private rooms. The boss owned the whole building but the upper floors had been converted into offices and accommodation, in a comfortable if gaudy style. The seventies, Sam thought as he was led through into a more subdued living room, had a lot to answer for.  
  
Hunt was seated on a leather couch, eating his dinner off a low coffee table. His two ever-present bodyguards watched Sam enter, and Hunt waved Sam over.  
  
"Glad you could make it. Care for some food?"  
  
Sam sat in an armchair opposite Hunt and tried to relax. "No thanks."  
  
"Oh, don't be such a div, Sam. No crime in bein' hungry, or takin' food from me."  
  
"First, I don't recall giving you the right to use my first name and second, you keeping track of my eating habits now? You got nothing better to do than watch me?"  
  
Hunt poured himself a cup of tea and pushed his plate aside. "Well, Tyler seems so formal, since we're getting' to know each other better. And I didn't know for sure you hadn't eaten, it was just a guess. I find I don't mind bein' wrong about the small things in life. It's the big things I like to keep on top of." Hunt wiped his face on a cloth and tossed it aside. "You've become something of a hobby for me, Sam Tyler. I find you fascinatin' in a sort of peculiar way. You are one very different copper."  
  
"If you say so. Can we get to the matter at hand?"  
  
Hunt sat back on the couch and sipped his tea. "Fine then. It so happens I know who is doin' these killings. Not one of my people, a right little lunatic, one of those psychotic killer types, gives me the creeps. I'm prepared to tell you who is, for a price."  
  
"I see." Sam clenched his hands into fists, then unclenched them, because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that he must not let Hunt control the situation, and loosing his temper would loose him position. "And I don't suppose you want to be a good citizen and just tell me?"  
  
Hunt nodded, still sipping his tea. "I'm happy to tell you. All you have to do is what I want. For one night, anything I want."  
  
Sam frowned, confused. "What?"  
  
"I will hand over to you the nutter killin' those women, in exchange for you, with me, for one night. And yes, Sam, I mean exactly what you think I mean."  
  
He was so shocked that all Sam could do for a half minute was stare, mouth open. When his thought processes finally overcame his amazement, he stood. "You must be out of your fucking head! Do you realise who you're talking to! I am the Detective Chief Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Division of South Manchester Police. Do I look like…do you think…are you totally mad!"  
  
Hunt didn't appear to be all that insane, and he watched Sam's furious tirade without any sign of annoyance. "Well, it so happens I do know who you are. It wouldn't matter to me if you were the Prince Consort of Turkey or a street sweeper. I want you, you see. Have since pretty well the first moment I saw you. So this works out for both of us. I get you, in my bed, for one night. You get to take a psycho killer off the street. And before the idea enters your head this is some sort of stitch up to compromise you, don't bother. I could do that without putting myself in the picture too. This is purely personal."  
  
Some part of him was fascinated despite the turmoil; that this man would risk so much to get what he wanted, what others would see as perversion. "Do your people know you're queer?"  
  
"My people don't give a fuck about my sexual preferences. I pay 'em enough to do as they're told and mind their own business. So, what's your answer?"  
  
"Let me get this straight…"  
  
"Love to help there."  
  
"Shut up with the innuendo. Do I understand you right - you will give me information about this killer if I let you have sex with me. Is that right?"  
  
Hunt nodded, poured himself a second cup of tea, infuriatingly calm. "Correct."  
  
Sam pursed his lips, eyes narrowing to a glare. "Fine, good, agreed. Give me the information now."  
  
Hunt snorted a laugh, almost spilling his tea. "Shit, yer nancy burke, do I look like I was born yesterday? You spend a night with me and in the morning I'll give you the information."  
  
Sam began to pace, spending the energy bubbling inside in the only way he could that didn't involve perpetrating mayhem on Hunt. He knew he should be furious, disgusted, appalled, but he felt oddly stimulated, as if he were playing a particularly exciting computer game. Or perhaps a game of chess, where the pieces were real people. The word "gambit" popped into his mind. A move involving the sacrifice of a piece. Or more than one.  
  
He stopped finally, saw that Hunt was watching him with an intent stare that had something feral about it. Something hungry.  
  
"Say I agreed to this outrageous proposal: how do I know you'd do what you say, or that you even know anything useful? This could be all some sick trick."  
  
"Well, firstly," Hunt said, as he reached for a stack of papers on the coffee table, "I don't give my word often, because I never break it if I do. So if I gave you my word, it would be a guarantee you could put in the bank. Second, it's a good point, since I am not exactly driving on the ethical side of the road." He smiled slightly, as he selected a small note from the pile. "This is the name and address of a young woman. If you contact her family, you'll find she hasn't come home from work today, and apparently she's a pretty reliable type. He took her this afternoon. The second location on the note is where he grabbed her. Even CID's crappy forensic types should be able to pick up enough clues to confirm it."  
  
"It could still be a setup," Sam said, grasping the note, "you could be doing this, lining me up for something." He looked back at Hunt, and froze. The big man had stiffened, his face flushed and angry.  
  
"I don't work that way, I told you. Gambling, a bit of stand over, some drugs, money laundering, a small interest in robbery, that's my game. I've said enough. Check out the information and make your own decision, but I really suggest you don't take too much time. He only keeps 'em for a couple'a days. You haven't got long."  
  
The rest of the night passed in a rush of activity. Sam called in his team and sent them off to check with the girl's family and check the location Hunt had given him. They confirmed everything within the hour: Sandra Martinson had gone to work and never come home, one of her workmates had confirmed her leaving work to catch the bus home at just after five, and she'd never walked through the family's front door. The others found signs of blood and a broken shoe that her mother had tearfully confirmed to be Sandra's.  
  
Sam sat in his office checking the facts over and adding everything up, and the results all seemed to fit. Proper procedure would be to drag Hunt in, try and get the information out of him, even arrest him as an accomplice. But Sam knew that would be a perfect waste of time. Hunt would have a barrister there in ten minutes getting him out, he'd deny even speaking to Sam about it, it would be Sam's word against his and what possible excuse could he give for considering Hunt as the killer? _Because he told me, in the same breath as he told me he wanted to have sex with me. Right, that would really go down well with a Magistrate…_  
  
He'd end up looking a fool, or insane, or incompetent. And the girl would still be dead.  
  
He could see no way out of it. There just wasn't time, and he couldn't risk a girl's life to protect himself. If it had been a fella with a gun or a knife standing between him and someone at risk, there would have been no question. There could be no question then.  
  
So he picked up the phone and called Gene Hunt, who didn't seem all that surprised to hear from him, the twisted bastard. "Sam. So?"  
  
"I said you couldn't use my name, and I agree. Give me the information."  
  
"No, you spend tomorrow night with me and you can leave with the information."  
  
"She could be dead by then. Look, I give you my word, my oath as a man and a police officer. If you tell me now, I'll…I'll be there tomorrow night, and do what you want. My oath on it."  
  
There was the sound of breathing, a pause. "Fine, your word I'll take. Seven o'clock tomorrow night, take a taxi here and go to the side door." Hunt gave him a name and an address, and within minutes of putting the phone down, Sam had cars full of cops heading out.  
  
Sandra Martinson was found alive. Frightened, a bit bruised and beaten, but alive. The skinny little monster who'd kept her locked in his basement was hauled in and happily rambled his pleasure at the women who'd been his for a little while before they disappointed him and cried too much and he had to cut them to stop them crying. Another lunatic locked away, and the squad were enormously pleased, and very impressed at their Guv's amazing sources. He'd probably end up with another award on the wall was everyone's opinion, and let's head off to the pub to celebrate.  
  
Sam went with them, joined in their happy socialising, drank himself almost stupid from all the congratulatory rounds, and dragged himself to bed in the early hours of the morning.  
  
Today had come far too quickly to meet it sober.

Time was just too bloody subjective. When you wanted it to go fast - like for payday when you were broke - it dragged. And when you wanted it to take into account your own edgy, hungover nerves and proceed in first gear, it went turbo.  
  
Sam was far too sober by lunchtime, to the point that he even considered getting drunk again. He didn't though, because it wouldn't solve anything, and it certainly wouldn't help him think. Not that he did much useful thinking: half a dozen projects he started and not one did he finish because whenever he looked at the clock, the damned thing had changed again, dragging him inexorably to his doom. Which was a cliché but an apt one.  
  
_I just won't go. Who'd know? Him, me, that's all, none the wiser and the world would continue rotating and nothing would change._ But he'd change. Inside, he'd know he'd broken his word, and honour was his personal qualifier. In principle, because of the work he did and how important it was to be honest, and in his heart, where he could hold to one thing as real and certain, that he would never break a promise. Never, not like some, not like all those broken promises of missed birthdays and lost heroes.  
  
But still he kept dithering, as the logical part of his brain threw up all the potential life and career disasters and his imagination threw up images of a big man and his big hands and his large…demands. Oddly enough, the logical half was louder than the physical. He thought he'd feel disgust, be revolted, because this was a man wanting to have sex with him. Why wasn't that shocking him far higher on the Richter scale?  
  
_Maybe because there's this tiny little part of you that's impressed with him, despite everything. Impressed that he'd put everything on the line to have you, that you inspire that sort of lust in someone as strong as Gene Hunt. And maybe because no woman has ever satisfied you, never made you tingle with something that's only partly fear, and a big measure of something a lot like anticipation…_  
  
As the clock hands moved past six thirty, Sam knew he could procrastinate no longer. He'd just about decided to get up and go home and find the escape route through a bottle of scotch when he swore, stood, grabbed his coat and walked outside.  
  
It was night already, the street lights were coming on, and as he turned, still uncertain, with perfect symmetry a taxi pulled up and a stranger stepped out. It was there, at the right moment and without thinking any more because not thinking was easier, he took the taxi.  
  
Sam didn't think of anything on the way over either, just watched the street lights flashing by and went to that private place in his mind he'd known as a kid, where he could hide in denial and pretend bad things weren't outside. It was almost a surprise when the taxi stopped finally and he handed over the fare and stumbled to the footpath without even waiting for change.  
  
One of Hunt's bodyguards was waiting at the door, and he was escorted upstairs in silence. The open living area was dimly lit with the overhead lighting off and a yellow glow coming from standing lamps, and a fire in the fireplace.  
  
Sam jerked in surprise when he was expertly and thoroughly frisked.  
  
"Sorry about that. I try not to take anything for granted. Like you even turning up at all."  
  
Sam looked towards the voice, saw Hunt standing behind the bar to one side of the living room, pouring something that was probably scotch into a glass. "I promised."  
  
"I know. Still surprised, though. Thought that copper's brain would argue you out of it."  
  
Sam lowered his arms as the bodyguard satisfied himself at the lack of weapons and left the room. "If you weren't sure, why did you…"  
  
"Because I'm a gambler, Sam. Where's the fun in always being sure of things? Life's a risk, every day of it. Being sharp means sometimes walking on the edge, and the win's sweeter when you bet big." He held up the bottle. "One for you?"  
  
Sam nodded. "A large one. And the name's Tyler."  
  
Hunt poured a second glass and held it out. After a moment, Sam walked over and took it, held it for a moment, then drank it, hardly pausing for breath.  
  
"No way to treat a fifteen year old single malt."  
  
The whisky hit his stomach like a warm, slow bullet and Sam gasped, licked his lips and tasted the heat as it rolled up onto his palate. It was as different from the stuff he drank at the Railways Arms as gold to brass. The wages of sin obviously included alcohol privileges. He held the glass out and Hunt topped it up. "Take it easy, I don't want you unconscious."  
  
"I bet," Sam muttered, but he just sipped at the scotch because as much as he wanted its effects, it didn't want to be sick.  
  
Hunt sipped his own drink. "So, I assume your lads picked up that piece of shit and saved Miss Martinson?"  
  
"We did. He's safely locked away, having blabbed happily about his methods and madness." Sam put the glass down on the bar. "So, what now, Hunt?"  
  
"Well, first, you get to call me Gene, 'cause I'm a lot more liberal with m'name. And second, you should take off your coat and make yourself comfortable. And don't look so concerned, I'm not gonna leap on your bones right this instant. We have all night, and unlike you and the scotch there, I like to savour things."  
  
Gene then did something that startled Sam; he turned on the television and pointed to a large rectangular and rather familiar looking box next to the television. "Have you seen one of these? Called a VCR, latest gadget, cost me six hundred quid. Amazing time we're livin' in, I can make a recording of things on the telly and watch 'em later. Whoda thought?" He selected a large tape from a selection on a nearby shelf and inserted into the big Philips machine. "Got this from a mate, a copy of 'The Good, the Bad and the Ugly'. Had to put it onto two tapes but well worth it."  
  
And so, Sam's evening started with the removal of one piece of clothing - his jacket - a scotch, sharing a big bowl of popcorn and watching Gene Hunt's favorite western on the television. Although it should have been strange, after a time it wasn't, as Sam slouched in the couch munching on popcorn and listening to Gene's enthusiastic comments.  
  
Two thirds of the way through the film Sam smelled a familiar sweet tang in the air and looked sideways, saw Gene lighting a twist. Gene took a drag and held it out to Sam, who shook his head.  
  
"No, don't do drugs."  
  
"Fuck, Tyler, I'm not offerin' smack. It's best quality grass, cut from my own plants. No worse than that scotch you slugged down. Don't go tellin' me you never did any grass in your reckless youth?"  
  
He had, of course, during his later high school and early university years. A long time ago, a long time in the future. Sam hesitated and then the memory of just how he'd reacted to grass came to him, and he reached out and took the twist because if it still worked on him in that same mad way, then it was just what he needed.  
  
He drew in the sweet, hot smoke, held it in his lungs until the remembered buzz hit, then let it out. Sam tipped his head back, let the trail of smoke drift up over his face in a warm, sweet haze.  
  
"Now, that is a sight," Hunt said, leaning back, lighting up a cigarette. "DCI Tyler indulging in illegal drugs."  
  
Sam savoured the taste, the swirling zip of the smoke, eyes narrowed. "And you did say you wouldn't have me doing anything illegal. So much for that."  
  
"I said no such thing. I said it would be nothing against your principles. Apparently smokin' a joint isn't against your principles."  
  
It was a moot point, and hardly the worst thing Sam had ever done, so he let it slide. As he knew it would, the drug's effect grew as they sat together watching the end of the film. The grass smoothed away the sharp corners of his emotions, releasing the ties of control and inhibition one by one. Things happened inside him; stress uncoiled and slid away, making space for stranger things and fey, whimsical images. Dream within a dream within a dream, like mirrors opposite each other, images reflecting off into infinity, as far as the light could reach.  
  
When he'd finished the first joint, Hunt gave him another, and he didn't even bother to object. Sam held the twist between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, took another slow breath in and looked beneath half-closed lids at Hunt. "I want two things from you," he drawled, watching the bright eyes focus on him.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I want a shower and I want food."  
  
The eyes blinked, the smile was there again. "I can provide both. Bathroom's the door at the end on the right. Steak and chips do?"  
  
Sam stood, took a final deep lungful of smoke as the twist burned down to his skin, and dropped the remains in the ashtray on the coffee table. "Fine." And the tiny devils that dwelled in the smoke were there, opening radical doors. Gene watched him, he watched Gene, as he undid his tie, lay it on top of the leather, and worked at the buttons of his shirt. Sam pulled the shirt from his trousers, dropped it onto the sofa, and slid the tongue of his belt free. "Medium rare."  
  
Gene seemed a little distracted. "What?"  
  
"Steak. Mine. Medium rare."  
  
"Got it. Medium rare." Yes, he sounded a little distracted too.  
  
"A nice Cabernet Sauvignon if you've got one, to go with the steak," and he turned, walking towards the bathroom, pausing to toe off his shoes, to slide open the zip of his pants and pull them lower, walking with them slid down to his hips as he reached the bathroom door. He thought he heard a choked sound, could have been laughter, could have been something else, but he didn't turned, moved inside, turned on the light and closed the door.  
  
Sam took a long hot shower, washed his hair, soaped all over his body, even places he thought he might like clean and moist in the time to come. As he slid a soapy finger inside his arse, he thought, I'll soon have Hunt..Gene's…finger in there, and something else, almost certainly. He touched himself as he washed, stroked his cock, his stomach, his chest, and wondered lazily what it would feel like to have those large, hard hands on him.  
  
Soon know. Won't need to wonder about it. The drug that opened many doors of possibility would lead him to place where he'd find out.  
  
And he thought of something else, as he finished finally and dried himself off. Before he'd stepped inside Hunt's den, he'd been prepared to whore himself for the woman who lived and all those future ones who'd live. But was it whoring if some of the moves were his, if he was more than a price? An annoying spark of thought said it was the grass, and that was fine, because it helped him to see things in other ways, beyond narrow principles.  
  
He thought of chess, and how gamble and gambit as words were so similar, but not the same and he thought he could figure out how but it didn't really matter anyway.  
  
There was a brown three quarter dressing gown on the back of the door and he pulled it down, water-wrinkled fingers stroking the velvety cotton fabric. Sam brought it to his face, smelled Hunt's cologne, and slipped it on. Too big of course, but he wrapped it around himself and tied the sash on, feeling like the boy who'd put on his father's coat to smell him, be closer to him. Barefooted, Sam left the bathroom and turned off the light.  
  
He must have been in there longer than he'd thought, because someone was setting a table at the far end of the room, and someone else was carrying in plates from the stairs, and he smelled gravy and meat and chips, and salivated. He was so hungry, had a huge appetite for something all of a sudden and he stalked across the room to the table.  
  
Sam sat on one of the chairs, tucked one leg under himself and waited. Moments later a plate with a huge steak and a pile of chips was placed in front of him.  
  
"Dig in," Gene said, sitting opposite him as he poured a glass of wine from a decanter. "Hope it's how you like it."  
  
Sam cut in the steak into sections, forked a piece and put in his mouth. The hunk was a bit big but he chewed on it, juices running down his chin. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, made a pleased sound because the steak was very tender and cooked to just the right degree.  
  
"Good?"  
  
He looked up, and there was Hunt sitting closer too him, his tie gone, shirtsleeves wound up to his elbows, not eating, the glass of wine in his hand and that distracted look was back again. He seemed to be staring at Sam's mouth.  
  
Sam nodded, unable to speak with his mouth full. He swallowed, held out a hand for the wine; Hunt put the glass into his hand and he drank a mouthful, tipping his head up to swallow it, pleased at the fruity, full flavour…  
  
And suddenly he was surrounded, engulfed and the wine glass was pushed away to fall to the floor. A hand held his chin as he saw Gene loom above him, face flushed, eyes wild. But only for a moment.  
  
The kiss was hungry for him, as hungry as he'd been for the food, and how strange it felt to have that tongue searching out the contours and flavours of his mouth, the lips twisting and sliding across his, hot breath moving over his skin in the moments of movement and change.  
  
"Jesus, Tyler…."  
  
Hands moved to the side of his head, thumbs stroking the bones of his cheeks and yes, they were big and hard and didn't feel all that terrible. He wondered if he was required to say something. Apparently not, because when he opened his lips to speak, the mouth was back, kissing him so thoroughly that he wasn't sure where he ended and Hunt began.  
  
Seduced by steak, Sam thought dizzily, as those hands moved down to his shoulders and pushed the robe away and down his back. As soon as the skin of his neck and shoulders was revealed Gene moved lower, licking and kissing his way past an ear, under the chin to the place where shoulder and throat met.  
  
For a moment he stilled, and Sam felt him shiver. " I wanted…I wanted to do this slow. I don't know if I can, Tyler. I'm sorry, I don't want to -- don't want you afraid of me --"  
  
Sam raised a hand and rested it on Gene's shoulder, fingers spread, and Gene raised his face. "I've never been afraid of you. I gave my word to you, that's the most important thing in the world to me. Show me you're worth it. And by the way," he finished softly, "my name's Sam."

Gene traced the line of Sam's jaw with one finger, then cupped his chin. "You know, there is something of the nutter about you, Mr Tyler. I suspect you're a trial to you superiors."  
  
Sam nodded in agreement. "Frequently am. And talking of food, which we weren't, " he finished, pulling his face away from Gene's hand, "I'm still, y'know, hungry."  
  
Gene reached behind himself without looking, snatched a handful of chips off the plate and held them in front of Sam.  
  
"Ta." Sam took one of the less mangled chips and popped it in his mouth. "Hm, bit cold."  
  
"I can heat 'em up if you want," Gene said, expression glazed, fist squeezing the chips to mash.  
  
Sam swallowed, shook his head. "No, I think..." And Gene moved in close again, kissed him again, muttering stuff against his mouth that didn't make a lot of sense but had Sam thinking that Gene was hungry too, but for other things. For him, apparently.  
  
The remains of the chips followed the wine glass to the floor. And although his rationale had left the building, Sam had a thought that although Gene Hunt was big and strong and used to being in control, he wasn't entirely, not then. He wanted Sam for who and what he was and that made him as much the supplicant as anything.  
  
When he pulled back from Sam's mouth, Gene tugged Sam to his feet and pulled him across to an open space in front of the fireplace. Close enough to be warm, but not too close to the fire, and Gene grabbed a cushion and threw it onto the thick rug at Sam's feet.  
  
"Always look after your knees, Sam, and they'll look after you," he said brightly, before sinking to the pillow, tugging open the brown dressing gown and lifting Sam's cock to his mouth.  
  
Sam watched as Gene's tongue dipped and licked as if he were sucking on an icy-pole; it took a few seconds for the twin sensations of touch and sight to catch up and set off sparks of pleasure in his brain. Who'd have thought having a man do that to him would feel so – fucking – good –  
  
And that was nothing to the win of having Gene practically consume his cock.  
  
The mixture of the grass, the alcohol, the whole weirdness of it made it difficult to think, so he didn't, too much. Sam combed his fingers through Gene's thick hair as his arousal flushed warm through his groin. Gene's hands moved across Sam's hips to squeeze his arse hard enough to bruise; Sam hissed but couldn't move as Gene held him in place, knees pushed back against the couch.  
  
It didn't take long, he was just too sensitized, too high on the experience and in what seemed like moments Sam was hard and gasping, fingers digging into Gene's scalp as his orgasm peaked and rolled in along every nerve and vein and erupted out of him with a sobbing cry. He shuddered, began to fall at the release and Gene caught him with effortless strength.  
  
He must have phased out for a few moments; when his brain reconnected he was lying against Gene on the couch, and the dressing gown was on the floor. His head lay against Gene's shoulder, legs spread across the wide thighs and the big man's arms were wrapped around him.  
  
"Enjoy that, did you? Not been with many blokes, I'm guessing."  
  
"Hmmm." Talking took effort, and Sam half-closed his eyes.  
  
Gene stroked Sam's arm absently. "How many then?"  
  
"How many what?"  
  
"Blokes."  
  
"Oh heaps, coupla dozen."  
  
The hand stilled on his arm, clenched. "How many?"  
  
Sam focused on Gene's face. "Why is it important?"  
  
"Just is."  
  
There was the chance to wound, to manipulate, to assess just what this night was worth to Hunt, and either way he did it would prove something. Sam chose the softer option because, in the end, there was nothing positive gained by hurting, or lying.  
  
"Including you? One."  
  
The hands holding him relaxed. "Thought so. Glad of it. Wanted to have you first. I would have taken you anyhow, but being your first makes it better. And talking of better," he finished, lifting Sam's legs away from him and standing, "as nice as it is here, I have this great big bed just waiting for us."  
  
Gene offered Sam his hand; Sam took it and was pulled to his feet. He followed along - not that he had much choice, he suspected Gene would have picked him up and carried him if he'd resisted. As they reached the door, Gene released him and pulled off his own shirt, then his belt and was pushing his pants off as he elbowed the bedroom door open and dimmed the lights.  
  
The design of the room was straight out of seventies Vogue. There were feature walls of brown and gold, a round corner table with one of those lamps that looked like a landing UFO, a wall unit with photographs in gold frames. There was, indeed, a large bed with the usual padded headboard on the wall, side tables with lamps, Thai silk curtains and flokati rugs on the floor. The bed was covered by a quilted velvet cover in shades of brown that Gene stripped off, revealing cream satin sheets beneath with matching pillows.  
  
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, contemplating interior design and sex because apparently this room was going to feature quite strongly in his memories as the place he first had sex with a man. Brown, it seemed, would be a dominant colour trigger…  
  
A big body appeared in front of him, blocking the view. A big, naked body. He looked up, scanning over stomach and chest and shoulders, up to Gene's face looking down at him. Sam felt a stirring of concern…the grass might be wearing off, which was typical timing, all in all.  
  
Gene lowered himself, rested his hands on Sam's knees. "Trust me?"  
  
Sam snorted a laugh. "Trust you? DCI Tyler plus major criminal Hunt. Where does trust feature in that equation?"  
  
"Too true. But here, in my bed, you can trust me. Outside, it's business. Here, it's just you'n me, without all that crap." A big hand slipped up Sam's arm, stroked over his shoulder. "Here, you're mine, and I care for what's mine."  
  
Sam's earlier thought returned, of taking and giving, and he put out one hand and rested his palm and fingers flat on Gene's chest. Then he did the same with the other and began to run both slowly down through the coat of gold hair. His fingers played over nipples, stroked over ribs and Gene shook at his touch. He felt scars, touched a long ridge of skin that looked like a cut, another that was a bullet hole; this body had taken a lot of damage. Sam leaned forward, rested his face against the broad chest, took a deep breath and willed himself to relax. When he was very still, he could feel Gene's heart thumping away. He concentrated on the beat, felt himself lifted and moved backwards onto the sheets, and hung on, turning into arms holding him, lifting his face to feel the flex of muscle, to smell the odour of cologne and perspiration, the musky hot smell of a man who would take him and use him as no-one ever had, and he suspected no-one else ever would.  
  
"Sam…" the voice said from above, husky and unsteady. "Look at me." He opened his eyes, saw Gene looking down at him, hair falling over his face, face flushed and damp. "Touch me."  
  
Sam moved his hands down, from chest to groin without taking his eyes from Gene's, and as Gene shifted slightly Sam's hands were suddenly full of hard, hot flesh. He grasped it, wrapped both hands around it and Gene arched, muscles snapping taught as he bit his lip, fighting for control. It was surprising to see, from just a touch.  
  
I guess I'm doing something right, Sam thought, and increased the pressure, stroking Gene's cock as he would his own, pumping it and feeling it swell even further between his fingers and palms, noting as he did that Hunt was circumcised, which wasn't unexpected, given his lifestyle. Gene held himself up on his hands and knees and bent forward to take Sam's mouth in another kiss, hotter and more aggressive than before. He held Sam easily in place, then pulled back with a gasp, tearing himself loose from Sam's hands, then flipped him over onto his stomach.  
  
For a moment he panicked, surging to get away; Gene slid up onto the bed at an angle, held him down, stroked his back as he might stroke a frightened animal. "'s'okay Sam, relax. Look, let me..." And he bent forward and Sam felt something soft and wet touch him on the arse, slide down between the crack between both buttocks, and when he twisted to look he saw the astonishing sight of Gene Hunt licking his arse.  
  
How it looked was wild enough; how it felt was ...! He went limp as that tongue, that had just been kissing him, delved into his arse and licked at the tight muscle of his anus. It gave a whole new meaning to the term 'arse licker'.  
  
_Good thing I washed there _was his dazed thought as Gene's hands settled on each buttock, pulling them gently apart as he continued to nuzzle between them, sucking and licking at the sphincter muscle. Sam pressed his face into the sheet, clenching the fabric in his fists and didn't even realised he'd pushed up and backwards onto the hot tongue until Gene's hands slid across to his hips to brace him.  
  
He was receiving a hands-on education in homosexual intercourse, from an expert. Strong hands kneaded Sam's sides and back and he felt muscles relax beneath the touch until he lay finally in about as easy a state as he was likely to get, given the circumstances. He sideways on one arm, saw Gene reach out and snag a jar from the bedside table, and a few moments felt something slick slide across the place Gene had been licking.  
  
"Just m'finger, have to...gawd, you're tight. I need to loosen you or I'll hurt you. Just think of it as...a sort of intimate massage."  
  
Sam's short laugh sounded closer to a squeak. "Right, massage, while you....ohhh..." The clever comment he'd been about to make was reduced to groans when the finger ignited pleasure. He twitched and moaned, squirming at the feel of it.  
  
"Yeah, gotcha, m'young DCI. Like that, do you? Wait till my big fella prods at it."  
  
Gene continue to stroke and stretch, inserted two fingers, working at the sphincter muscle until it softened and loosened. By the time he managed three, Sam was loosing the early hard on the first finger had stirred and had started to feel uncomfortable. Before he get up to go look for his lost mind, Gene grabbed his hips, flipped him onto his back and lifted both legs to wrap them around his waist.  
  
Gene ran both hands along Sam's flanks, easing him into position so that Sam rested against his thighs. Then he edged forward on his knees, angling Sam up and the rounded end of that big cock press against Sam's arse.  
  
_Right, here comes that moment when I should start to get worried _he thought dazedly, blinking at Hunt looming over him, hands sliding down under his waist, supporting him, holding him in place.  
  
Sam hung onto Gene's arms, hung on for dear life, not knowing what would happen or how different he would be after this, when Gene did something amazing - he stopped. Holding himself in place, his body shaking, Gene looked into Sam's eyes, his own eyes wide with need.  
  
"I won't…won't rape you. If you want this stopped, say now."  
  
Panting, sweat dripping into his eyes, he watched Sam watch him, and Sam's hands clenched.  
  
"Stop?"  
  
Something like pain rippled across Gene's face, and Sam realised he'd misunderstood.  
  
"No, no, idiot … I didn't say…!"  
  
"W..what?"  
  
"Oh, jeez…" Time to make a choice, and there really wasn't any other: Sam curved upwards in Gene's arms and shoved himself backwards, forcing himself onto the cock resting against his arse. He hissed, Gene groaned, and Sam swore. "Fuck!"  
  
"Well," Gene said, with a indrawn, dry laugh, "why didn'ya just ask!" And he drove the hard length of his cock into Sam, who cried out, sobbed at the sudden hot penetration and held on because there was nothing else he could do.  
  
Whatever quixotic impulse had made Gene stop to ask permission, it went overboard in a rush of lust as he took possession of Sam's body. It was pure coupling then as Gene thrust in deeply, ground his hips and pulled back, slowly at first and then faster as his arousal grew. Sam thrashed and cried out, caught between the unfamiliar pain of the possession and the pleasure of each deep strike. He felt his own cock being taken by one of Gene's hands, taken and squeezed and pumped until he flailed beneath the large body, nerve ends going off like fireworks.  
  
Gene thrust deeply, paused, thrust again until his balls were pressed up against Sam's arse, then arched his back and shuddered. Sam hardly felt Gene's orgasm, was too caught up in his own. The hands holding him pulled and squeezed he came, finally, with a choked cry, spraying himself across Gene's chest.  
  
Limp, totally wasted, he felt Gene pull his cock from his arse, then Sam's legs were lowered and he was shifted onto his side. Gene settled behind him, cupping himself against Sam's back. They were hot and damp and sticky and Sam finally understood the meaning of being totally shagged.  
  
"I think your sheets are ruined," he said, slurring the words, "and I'm, to use the vernacular, buggered." He felt the shake of Gene's laughter through his back.  
  
"That you are, thoroughly reamed." He felt a hand carefully touching his arse. "But not damaged, since I am the Genie and can work magic." Gene's other hand stroked his hair. "What you expected?"  
  
"Mmmm. Dunno. " Sam squirmed around to face Gene. "Are we square, then?"  
  
The placid expression froze, went blank. "'spose so. Except you promised to stay the night, and there's hours yet to go."  
  
"So, once isn't enough, then?" he asked, and Gene pursed his lips, eyebrows twitching together.  
  
"Tyler, if you can't --"  
  
Sam laughed and leant forward to press his lips to the hot, damp skin of Gene's throat. "Oh, but I can, Mister Hunt. The name's Sam, and I'm still hungry."  
  
Gene swore, and grabbed him, and held on and Sam remembered that chess games always ended with a surrender.


End file.
